


and i pretend he’s mine to keep

by katarama, Verbyna



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual Male Character, First Time, Insomnia, M/M, Marking, Mild D/s, Sex Work, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:29:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23803894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katarama/pseuds/katarama, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verbyna/pseuds/Verbyna
Summary: “What would you like to do?”“Have sex?” Gansey blurts out, then blushes all the way down his neck, into the collar of his shirt. Declan licks his lips and prays for strength.
Relationships: Richard Gansey III/Declan Lynch
Comments: 16
Kudos: 85





	and i pretend he’s mine to keep

**Author's Note:**

> For SummerFrost, who probably should have thought about the consequences before they introduced us, but who we are glad did not (and who is a wonderful beta).

It’s close to one in the morning and Declan, true to form, has no plans to sleep. Fifteen minutes earlier he put the pill back in its bottle, the bottle back in the tea drawer (where he keeps it, nominally, as backup for less addictive soporifics), then retrieved his favorite gun and one of the cleaning kits.

He detoured to the freezer to pour himself a shot of vodka, first. It’s not his poison, but anything else would make him sick over the solvent fumes; he’s giving a pre-breakfast briefing tomorrow and if he can’t be well-rested, he can at least avoid further unpleasantness. Cleaning his gun is a soothing ritual, but not without its drawbacks.

He might go to the range tomorrow night, if he doesn’t have a client. He would’ve gone already tonight, but by the time he arrived home, after a day of printing and binding handouts and an hour with a senator’s wife, it was all he could do to dress again after showering.

(He was nearly kidnapped naked once. He makes a point to learn from his mistakes.)

Now that he has decompressed, with the familiar weight of the gun in hand and liquor burning in his throat, he feels enough like himself to wish he had something to do. Morning is far off, and his hobbies are both illegal and expensive.

Maybe he can purchase one small sketch? Would that be enough?

He’s mentally rifling for a likely item in local collections that were recently raided when his client phone lights up with a message. He sighs, puts the gun down, and reads it.

 _Unknown number:_ Hello, Declan. I have your number from HG. Are you available tonight?

Helen Gansey hasn’t referred any clients to him before. He’d been hoping she would, so despite the hour, he confirms his availability and saves the number.

 _24:_ Thank you. Please send me a location for the Uber and the payment details.

 _Eager,_ Declan thinks, a little pleased. It must’ve been quite the recommendation. He replies and puts the phone away after receiving an ETA of twenty minutes, then speeds through lubricating the barrel and wiping down the gun. The smell is concerning - no one who recognizes gun oil in a stranger’s apartment is happy to get naked and vulnerable there. He opens all the windows and runs the electric fan to disperse it, cursing under his breath. At least the money’s good.

His clients are as diverse as the byzantine connections between the rich along which his number is passed along. The senator’s wife from earlier was fifty and admirably well-maintained; yesterday he blew a venture capitalist who’d already lost half his hair at thirty. His oldest client is sixty-six, and Helen, his best client, is only slightly older than him. He finds himself curious to see whom she’s sent his way - surely someone in their own generation. It’s hard to imagine her giving an escort’s number to someone from her parents’ set. She’d have to have a conversation that invites this sort of confidence with one of them first, and she’s not the type.

Still pondering this, and now dressed in a soft cashmere sweater that makes him look less like his day job, Declan opens his door to Gansey.

He almost slams it closed again, but manages to contain himself.

“Come in,” he says, angling out of the way. After a moment, he notes, “This is unexpected.”

Gansey looks accusing for a split second. It gives way to nerves. Nervous is a surprisingly good look on him, Declan is almost upset to find out. He walks past Declan to the living room, moves slowly and doesn’t look back, and Declan finds himself checking out his ass, the tightness in his shoulders.

He’s never allowed himself to look. This is Ronan’s best friend. In the drawn-out guerilla war that is his relationship with his brother, Declan has always tried to avoid the more obvious explosions.

“Declan,” Gansey says, lost for words, still giving Declan his back like a child who never had to watch it.

Declan waits, and when it’s obvious that nothing else is forthcoming, he sighs and says, “Have a seat in the living room. I’ll bring you a drink.”

Gansey nods, clenches and unclenches his fists restlessly, and walks over to the couch. Declan follows him with two glasses of water. He doesn’t meet his own eyes in the dark kitchen window, certain that he’ll second-guess himself if he did.

“Here you go,” he says as he offers Gansey the glass, and sits at the other end of the couch, morbidly curious to see how this plays out. “Helen referred you to me?”

“I--” Gansey starts, then stops to have a sip. Declan watches his throat move with interest. “Yes. She thought I could, well. Avail myself of your services,” he says, painfully awkward, grimacing at himself.

“If you’re concerned about the fact that it’s me--” Declan says carefully, but Gansey interrupts him. 

“No! No, that’s not. It’s better, I suppose, that you’re someone I... know.” His wide, earnest eyes are more effective than Helen’s weaponized innocence. Declan wonders if she picked it up from Gansey when they were kids. Like Declan, she was brought into the adult world much sooner than her brother, to soften his landing. Heirs aren’t rushed, lest they’re ruined.

Look at Ronan.

Declan allows himself to smile, but twists it into kindness before it settles on his face. “Is it? I guess it is. Why did she direct you to me?”

Gansey puts the glass down and rubs his palms together, hands between his knees. His head is bowed. Declan wants to see his eyes, gauge the truth of what he’s saying, but he knows he can’t press without it coming to blows or, worse, tears. There’s no abundance of goodwill between them. He will add to it, if he can.

“All right,” Gansey says, almost to himself. He takes a deep breath and lets it out, then says, “I haven’t done much,” and Declan’s hands clench instinctively on the glass. _Grant me strength,_ he thinks, half-despairing.

The other half is busy salivating at the thought that he’ll have Gansey if he plays his cards right - have him like this, unspoiled, the way no one else will, and he’ll be paid for the privilege. It sets his blood to a simmer.

“By not much…”

Gansey huffs a laugh, not particularly amused. “I’ve kissed a few girls. One girl in particular. You remember Blue, she came here with Ronan once to see--”

“Please don’t talk about my brother while I’m on the clock,” Declan requests, low but firm. “You have my personal number. We can talk about him later this week, if you’d like, but that’s not why we’re here.”

To his relief, Gansey nods and reins in his instinct to talk about his friends when he’s nervous. Declan is pleased that he knows this about him. It occurs to him that he could take Gansey apart with all the things he knows, given half a chance. He studies his opponents.

“What would you like to do?” he asks, to knock Gansey off-balance.

“Have sex?” Gansey blurts out, then blushes all the way down his neck, into the collar of his shirt. Declan licks his lips and prays, again, for strength.

He moves closer to Gansey, cautiously, and leans forward to catch his eyes. He almost wants to tell him there’s no menu here, that it’s not that kind of service, but he won’t put Gansey on the defensive. Not about this. Instead he asks, “Do you know what you like?”

Gansey fidgets, twists his mouth. Declan finds himself patient, unhurried, as though his brain decided without conscious input to accommodate this boy rather than push through to the other side of the discomfort without regard for how he reaches it. It’s novel.

“I don’t, uh. Back at Monmouth, my room was the living room? The bathroom was also the kitchen?” Gansey shrugs self-consciously. “And then I was sharing a room with Blue and Henry on the road. I didn’t have a lot of… time to myself. In private. Mostly I think about it.”

“When you can’t sleep?”

Gansey smiles at him suddenly, a wry commiserating smile that Declan can’t help but return. Yes, they’re both here at two in the morning. How strange to be on the same side of something as Richard Gansey, he thinks, for once.

“When I can’t sleep, yes.”

They keep smiling at each other. Declan wants to touch him, teach him, give him his money’s worth.

“I gather you still want to do this.”

“Yes,” Gansey says. Then, with more confidence, “I do.”

Declan licks his lips again and lets Gansey see it. He must be used to being wanted, but not like this, with intent; his eyes glaze over a little, then snap back to Declan, caught.

“Do you want to top? Or--” he won’t say _can I have you,_ which is absolutely what he means. It burns in his throat. Declan puts his glass down.

Gansey looks a bit panicked, and that’s it, game over. Declan slides over to his side and runs a soothing hand down Gansey’s back. He rests it on Gansey’s waist and waits until Gansey leans into it.

 _“Or._ All right. Can I kiss you?”

He’s got his mouth on Gansey’s before he finishes nodding, pushes his head up in the same motion. He can feel a sharp exhale on the side of his face, but Gansey lets himself be kissed, melts into it like all the scenes that run through Declan’s sleepless mind. His hands are holding Gansey’s face on their own, cold against his flushed skin; he follows the heat down blindly into Gansey’s collar, gently pulls him closer by it, and God, he would do this for free.

He might not enjoy it as much. It’s not in his nature to simply give people what they want, but the nature of the arrangement makes it palatable.

He doesn’t break the kiss as he guides Gansey to stand. He doesn’t want Gansey to open his eyes again until he’s in the bedroom, so he walks Gansey backwards to the door and resists the urge to pin him to it. He reaches out to open it ahead of them, his other hand hooked in Gansey’s collar.

Gansey’s knees hit the edge of the mattress, and Declan savors his shaky inhale: the first, he hopes, of many.

_____

When Gansey texted the number Helen gave him, he had low expectations. He did not initially plan to use it at all, the business card with Helen’s loopy writing in ballpoint pen tucked into the inside pocket of the suit jacket he wore to his mother’s fundraising event. “You look like you need this,” she’d said, her voice knowing in a way Gansey took to be both a warning and a threat. 

The numbers on his phone clock changed, and it was midnight, twelve thirty, one in the morning, and his body had passed the point of no return, exhaustion breaking to give way to restlessness. He knelt on the floor assembling his miniature Henrietta, a fresh start in his new DC apartment. His knees ached. He lay in his bed, burrowed under his covers. His knees pressed up against the covers and the ache pressed against something deeper, _knees scraped and bleeding into his dress pants as he lay on the ground in the woods._ He could already hear a phantom buzzing in his ears, a tightness in his chest that he knew would only get worse the more he tried to ignore it.

His hands shook when he relented, when he dug out the business card and added the contact to his phone. He needed to get out of his head, and he didn’t think this would do it, but he’d reached the familiar point of being willing to try anything.

When Declan opens the door, Gansey does not have the time or the presence of mind to adjust his expectations.

From the very first press of Declan’s mouth to Gansey’s, warm and soft and patient, Gansey feels his thoughts already starting to slow, the buzzing in his ears start to dull. He lets himself be kissed until his lips are sore, a pleasant ache soothed by the wetness of Declan’s mouth. Declan tugs Gansey to bed by the collar of his polo shirt, and Gansey is more distracted by the way the fabric digs into his skin, the pressure against his pulse that makes him swallow hard, than he is with the fact that Declan’s hand is stretching his shirt out of shape.

Declan notices. Gansey can tell that Declan notices, that Declan seems more aware of and in control of Gansey’s body than Gansey is right now. He finds himself sitting on the bed, Declan neatly folding himself down to eye level, kissing Gansey again before he has the opportunity to miss it.

The weight of Declan’s hands presses against Gansey’s upper thighs through his clothes, and he feels himself moan into the kiss, his thighs squeezing together, his hips seeking something better than the uncomfortable press of the zipper against his cock, something more than the insubstantial contact. Declan is in no rush, keeping Gansey’s legs spread even as Gansey realizes Declan was merely taking the long, teasing route down Gansey’s thighs and calves to take off the shoes he forgot he was wearing.

“Be patient,” Declan says, his breath hot against Gansey’s skin, electricity traveling up Gansey’s spine. Gansey hears a promise in the words that he isn’t sure Declan intended, an _I will take care of you_ that feels like everything slotting into place, warm and easy, in Gansey’s head. His shoulders drop and his breathing slows, and he exhales a quiet “thank you” that he may regret later, but keeping track of every word leaving his lips, keeping track of points in his head, seems less pressing than Declan maneuvering Gansey’s body like it's his own. 

Gansey’s shoes come off, and Declan turns his attention to Gansey’s shirt, hands a soft whisper of fingertips brushing against the sensitive skin of Gansey’s sides, Gansey’s skin electric. He does the work for Gansey, lifts Gansey’s hands above his head, rucks the shirt up and over. He moves like he has all the time in the world, and his words repeat in Gansey’s head, _be patient, be patient, be patient_ , even as he feels like his body’s being lit up from the inside when Declan presses Gansey’s nipples flat against his chest with short, blunt nails. Declan’s hands linger when he coaxes Gansey’s hips off the bed to slide off the last of his clothes, a trail of warmth against the cool air blowing from Declan’s fan, Gansey’s skin pebbling with goosebumps.

Declan strips quickly and efficiently, but Gansey can’t keep his eyes off the newly exposed skin, can’t help the urge to want to touch, like Declan did for him. To kiss his way down and… do whatever Declan wanted, whatever would make Declan feel good. That desire to be good for Declan is new but pervasive, expanding in his lungs and in his head as Declan’s focus narrows to gently and stubbornly taking him apart.

Declan curls one hand behind Gansey’s head and rests the other between Gansey’s shoulder blades. Gansey releases his breath and gives himself over to Declan’s hands until his back is sinking down into the soft, plush mattress, the easiest of trust falls. His eyes slip shut, but he can hear the sheets rustling as Declan moves, can feel the reassuring warmth when Declan touches his hip, as if to remind him it’s okay, _I’m still here._

Not for the first time, Gansey feels a warm glow in his chest and a twist in his gut, and he isn’t sure if he says thank you this time, but he feels it with every part of him when Declan leans back over Gansey and kisses him.

“Can you look at me for a second?” Declan asks, a puff of breath on Gansey’s face, and Gansey doesn’t want to open his eyes, but he does, because Declan asked him to. Declan has a bottle of lube in his hand and a condom on the bed, and Gansey’s stomach swoops and his cock twitches, because he knew, objectively, that this could happen, but it never felt so real before this moment. Never felt so thrilling, a sharp spike of arousal cutting through the comfortable haze. 

“There you go,” Declan says, and Gansey feels the praise heat his cheeks. “This will hurt, but not for long.” Gansey nods, words feeling heavy in his mouth, but Declan seems to accept this, maybe even to expect it. He’s not wrong - when he eases in the first finger, there is a twinge of pain, a discomfort that lingers and then fades with every breath in and out. 

The “you’re doing so well” that Declan murmurs settles under Gansey’s ribs, a glow so bright it could light a city, and pushes him through the next waves of discomfort and relaxation. He turns his face into the pillow, a slow, calming intake of breath and a bared neck, and Declan’s fingers still, one final stretch before they’re slowly removed. 

Declan doesn’t leave him with the emptiness for long, pushing in nice and slow, his body over Gansey’s. “I’m gonna mark you up for me,” Declan says, soft but firm, and Gansey feels suddenly desperate for it, wants it so badly he could cry. Declan slowly starts to move, Gansey’s body overloaded with the fullness of Declan’s cock moving inside him and the scent of Declan’s cologne and vodka blanketing him and the searing warmth of Declan mouthing at Gansey’s skin. 

He didn’t know that Declan kissing behind his ear would make him buck, the dual sensation of desperately seeking friction both inside and out, but Declan doesn’t seem surprised. Declan draws out each kiss down Gansey’s neck as if considering carefully where his mark should go, and Gansey’s whole body is taut with anticipation by the time he finally feels the sharp ache of a bruise that will later bloom red, high on his throat for anyone to see.

“There,” Declan says, his satisfaction bleeding in. The air blows cool against the wetness, another set of shivers down Gansey’s spine. Declan’s thumb goes to his pulse to dry the spit-slick skin, and Gansey feels his own hand move before he’s entirely conscious of it, a quiet _please_ as he holds Declan’s hand right there, thumb pressed into the sensitive skin of his throat. His head is jumbled and he wants so much, but Declan doesn’t ask _please what?_ , just starts to move faster, finally, an answer to a question Gansey didn’t know to ask.

Time moves in stops and starts, unevenly in Gansey’s head, the now pleasant ache dragged out and filtered through the warm haze in his head, every spark of pleasure singing through his body before his brain can intercept it. His thoughts are syrupy slow and focused on Declan’s cock inside him, Declan’s mouth on his, Declan’s body over his. Declan fucks into him like it’s easy, like he’s easy. Just keeps fucking into him until Gansey’s cock is so hard it hurts and Gansey’s head swims with it, his breath uneven in a way that is actually making him feel a little lightheaded and more than a little overwhelmed and-

Gansey doesn’t know if everything tilting just over the edge of too much telegraphs on his face, all right there for Declan to see, doesn’t know if his body is screaming with it or if he is just painfully obvious and transparent to Declan, but Declan slows to a stop.

His weight presses down on Gansey, and Gansey doesn’t know how more weight on his chest could be a good thing, but it is, it’s everything he needs. He breathes out, _thank you,_ and Declan kisses him quiet, Declan’s mouth and body a solid weight keeping him from spiraling, grounding him.

Declan cups Gansey’s cheek, and if Gansey opened his eyes he imagines he would see something akin to tenderness in Declan’s eyes. But he thinks that may be too much in an entirely different way, and he doesn’t know if Declan would show him that if he were actually looking. He doesn’t want to be proven wrong right now, when he’s just starting to slowly come back down to earth a bit, enough for the hot ache of pleasure in his gut, in his cock, to settle down into something on the good side of too much.

When Declan starts back up, it doesn’t take long for Gansey to feel just short of spilling over again, his cock leaking and the tension building in his body. It feels less terrifying this time, especially once Declan tells him, "You can come whenever you want," mouth right up against his ear. 

Gansey feels his body shudder and whispers, "Thank you,” because he hadn’t been thinking about it before, it hadn’t occurred to him that he should wait, _be patient,_ to ask permission. But having it, knowing that Declan wants him to come, feels like a blessing. He repeats himself, _thank you,_ his mouth forgetting how to shape other words when it feels like in every moment Declan is giving him something new he didn’t know his body could experience.

Declan comes before him. Gansey thanks him for that, too, his voice starting to sound raspy, strained, even to his own ears. 

"Shh," Declan says, fighting to control his breath. Gansey doesn’t have the time or the space in his head to wonder what comes next, to start reaching for his cock. Declan takes care of it. "Stay just like that," Declan says as he gently combs his fingers through Gansey’s hair. Declan touches his mark again, a reminder, before he slides his hand down Gansey’s chest. 

Gansey feels strung out when Declan finally grips his cock. It’s so close to just enough, but Declan takes his time, and Gansey takes whatever Declan is willing to give. When he finally feels everything slot into place, his cock spurting come on Declan’s hand and his own chest, it’s a gut punch, his whole body shaking with it. Declan’s voice barely cuts through the haze of it, reminding him to breathe.

Gansey drags air in and out of his lungs in ragged breaths, but it doesn’t stop the racing of his pulse or the sudden, overwhelming feeling that Declan may have ruined him for the next person. That he doesn’t know what this is and that he wouldn’t even begin to know how to ask for it from anyone else. 

Declan kisses Gansey one last time before he cleans Gansey up and dresses him, socks first. He doesn’t think he told Declan his feet were cold, but he doesn’t think he told Declan most of the things Declan seemed to know about him. As Gansey’s shirt goes back on, collar definitely overstretched, it doesn’t quite feel like undoing what Declan did when he took the clothes off, but it does make it real that this part of things is over, for the night.

The exhaustion hits him all at once.

Declan pulls a sheet over him and brings a bottle of water from the kitchen. He closes Gansey's fingers around it, Gansey’s eyes slowly opening as Declan pushes the hair off his face. "You can sleep," Declan says, as if it was that easy all along, as if that wasn’t what drove Gansey to Declan’s door in the first place.

When Gansey closes his eyes again, he drifts off before he can say thank you one last time.

**Author's Note:**

> on tumblr:  
> katarama: sleepy-skittles  
> verbyna: soundslikepenance


End file.
